Epiphany
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: An egotistical actor unwillingly redeems himself just a little. Follows 'Famous Daughter Returns'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Once again…thanks to Aaron Spelling, Leonard Goldberg and Gene Levitt for use of the characters they created, Mr. Roarke and Tattoo. I've also revisited the chateau that originally belonged to Claude Duncan from the 2/7/1981 episode's story arc "The Chateau", and have made mention of Helena Marsh from the episode "The Wedding", originally broadcast November 3, 1979. All other characters have sprung out of my overactive imagination. (smile)_

* * *

§ § § -- August 11, 1991

Tattoo was waiting for them in the main house, and grinned when he saw Leslie and his former boss. "So another weekend is history, huh?"

"Yup," Leslie said, grinning back. "Have you had the grand tour of the island yet?"

"No," Tattoo said, looking quizzical. "Has it changed that much since I left?"

"Quite a bit, my friend, yes," Roarke said. "However, if you haven't eaten yet, I suggest we first have breakfast, then take a little sightseeing trip."

They did some more catching up while Roarke piloted the car around the eastern end of the island, showing Tattoo the new bungalows and some other changes. "What about the cottage I lived in?" Tattoo asked curiously.

"We converted that into a guest bungalow also," Roarke told him, "since Leslie lives with me in the main house, of course. Yet we still have a very long list of people waiting for reservations in the hotel and in Julie's bed-and-breakfast inn. I have been approached by the owners of at least two of the mansions in the Enclave, offering to put them into use as additional lodgings; and I must admit the idea is very appealing."

"You'll be running this island forever, boss," Tattoo said, chuckling. "It amazes me you don't have any competition. But then again, nobody else could do what you do."

Roarke glanced at him with a smile, but didn't comment. Leslie leaned forward from the back seat. "Which two, Mr. Roarke?"

"The Lightwood-Wynton mansion," he told her, "and the one that film director John Angus Walsh has decided to put up for sale. We met him last night at the prince's gala, do you remember?"

"Impossible not to," Leslie said and laughed. "He has the world's loudest voice." The eccentric Scottish-born director had a voice like a natural bullhorn; when Leslie had met Toni Karlsen, who had worked on two of his movies, Toni had told a couple of anecdotes on Walsh that had left Leslie laughing. "I didn't realize he owned a mansion here."

"It's not common knowledge," Roarke said. "I believe he is trying to liquidate some of his assets in order to bankroll an ambitious film project. I think this is even bigger than his magnum opus, _Highlander Fair,_ a few years ago. It was that film that enabled him to buy the property in the first place." He turned left onto the Old Swamp Road. "Perhaps it's wise to make a quick check of the outer façade. I understand some of Prince Errico's guests rented it over the weekend."

"I don't suppose that's the one Russell St. Anthony wanted," Leslie said.

Tattoo twisted around in his seat and stared at her. "That actor who's so full of himself? Why on earth would he be interested in a place here?"

"Oh, he wasn't happy with the suite he had at the hotel, so he demanded to be given a mansion for his stay here," Leslie said. "And I suppose he wants to use it again when he comes back for his fantasy in a couple of weeks or so. Do you know him, Tattoo?"

"No, I've never met him," Tattoo said, "but Solange and I saw one of his plays in Paris not too long ago. He's very talented, I'll give him that…but he seems to think he's a notch below God on the scale of importance. Someday he's going to have a rude awakening."

"Indeed, my friend," Roarke remarked, "your words may well be prophetic. At any rate, no—he wasn't interested in Mr. Walsh's property. There's no need to worry about Mr. St. Anthony's affairs at this time. Your presence here, Tattoo, gives Leslie and me an excuse for a day off, so why don't we set business matters aside and enjoy it."

The following day Tattoo left on the late-morning charter, and Roarke and Leslie were strongly reminded of the day he had left with Solange. Leslie had tears in her eyes again, and there was a wistful gleam in Roarke's. "Don't cry, Leslie," he said. "I am sure Tattoo will be back again. Fantasy Island was a very large part of his life, and he could no more forget it than he could his artwork."

"I hope you're right," Leslie said. "But I want to see him at his own home someday too. It's a great excuse for a trip to Paris." Laughing, Roarke guided her toward the car.

§ § § -- August 23, 1991

The pending arrival of Russell St. Anthony had loomed like a gathering storm on the horizon ever since he'd demanded his fantasy be granted. On the afternoon of the day before he was due back on Fantasy Island, Roarke and Leslie drove out to the Enclave and up the two-mile lane leading to the old Claude Duncan chateau. Since the silent-film actor's death intestate, the chateau had spent more than eight years sitting idle and neglected while the lawyer who was executor of Duncan's estate tried to find some relative somewhere who could decide what should be done with the place. Just before Leslie had returned to the island the previous year, the lawyer had finally unearthed a second cousin twice removed who hadn't even realized he was related to Claude Duncan and didn't want the chateau. He had instructed the lawyer to sign the deed over to Roarke and let him decide its fate, which had been done; Roarke had paid the tidy little sum of one dollar to the cousin, taken delivery of the deed, and filed it away until he had some use for it.

Now the long-abandoned mansion had had life restored to it. The grounds had been manicured and the façade repaired, the rusting gate replaced, the stucco patched and the broken locks fixed. "What a change," Leslie said, staring at the place. "What's the occasion, Mr. Roarke?"

"The chateau has a new owner," Roarke told her, "namely Russell St. Anthony."

She stared at him. "Are you telling me he's going to take up residence on Fantasy Island?" She was so astonished that she forgot to watch where she was going, and tripped over a loose brick in the pathway to the double front doors. Roarke glanced down in surprise and frowned at the dislodged brick.

"Now how is it that that was overlooked?" he murmured idly. "Be careful, Leslie, I understand that the inside is still in the same condition it was when Mr. Duncan passed away. Yes, Mr. St. Anthony wished to purchase a secluded home where he could have some peace, and bought this chateau sight unseen two Sundays ago."

"The day of the engagement gala," Leslie said. "Hmm. Well, he did say he wanted a mansion—I just thought he was planning to rent one, not buy it outright. Does he know he's getting a neglected old wreck?"

Roarke produced a key from his jacket pocket and fit it into the new lock on the door. "It's entirely up to Mr. St. Anthony as to what to do with its contents."

"Terrific," muttered Leslie, reluctantly following Roarke inside. Her last memories of this place were not exactly happy ones, and she shivered involuntarily once she'd stepped over the threshold. "So now he's going to move here and lord it over everyone on the island, probably including us."

Roarke sighed gently and turned halfway to look directly at her. "Leslie, your prejudice is showing. Mr. St. Anthony is a very troubled man with a large problem, and though it undoubtedly cost him a great deal of pride to do so, he turned to me for help. He hides it well, but he is very disturbed."

Leslie shook her head, unable to completely conceal her skepticism. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke, but you'll just have to forgive my shortsightedness. I'm afraid I simply can't see how someone as vain and self-assured as he is could be bothered by anything."

Roarke shook his head slightly and gave up. Even Tattoo, who had always been very open towards their guests, had had strong private opinions about some of them. Besides, once Leslie learned more about Russell St. Anthony's fantasy, she would have a different perspective and might see fit to change her mind. He heard a faint groaning from the floorboards behind him and turned again to see Leslie gingerly testing each section of floor before she stepped fully onto it, rocking back and forth from her front foot to her back one with every step. After a moment she realized he had stopped and looked up at him, face turning pink. Roarke asked with some irony, "Are you afraid of falling through the floor and into that dungeon you so clearly recall?"

The pink in her cheeks deepened to red and she turned away then. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke," she said quietly, "but this wasn't my choice of places to spend the afternoon."

His demeanor softened and he went to her, smoothing her hair. "I know, my child, I know. We won't be here very long; I need only see what must be done to prepare the house for Mr. St. Anthony's arrival. It may show its neglect, but for all its cosmetic faults, it's a solidly-built house. What are you expecting?"

She slowly tilted her head back till she was staring at the dust-coated chandelier overhead, face pensive. Finally she admitted, "Frankly, I don't know." After a moment she lowered her gaze to meet his. "Please tell me, Mr. Roarke, what exactly does he want here? Why did he really buy the chateau, and what's his fantasy?"

Roarke dropped his hand from her shoulder where it had been resting and stepped back, scanning their surroundings. "Mr. St. Anthony has told me that he has come to an understanding with himself. He has had something of an epiphany, if you will."

"What about?" asked Leslie.

"The morning he bought the chateau and arranged for his fantasy to be granted, he told me that he has had some disturbing news—although he didn't seem to feel the need to explain it at that time—and wants to take some time away from the stage in order to think and to reassess his life. He wished complete seclusion in which to do so, and this chateau will afford him that." Roarke paused for a moment, thinking back, then continued, "Also, I believe his decision was reinforced when he discovered that Michiko is now engaged to marry the crown prince of Arcolos. You'll remember the sheer shock on his face when the announcement was first made." He smiled a little wryly. "In fact, as I recall, it was you who brought it to my attention."

"So I did," said Leslie. "But I still don't really understand. Why would he come to this…this crossroads in his life now? What's the catalyst? From what Michiko told us, he had nothing less than a love-'em-and-leave-'em attitude, and couldn't care less what became of the poor women he threw aside. Nothing Michiko said indicated that he treated her any differently. So why should he suddenly be so affected by discovering her engagement to another man? There's more to this than you're telling me, Mr. Roarke."

"I am not sure even he himself is fully aware of the true reason, Leslie," Roarke said. "Therefore, I am not at liberty to explain further. You will know more in due time. I apologize that it's necessary for me to be so secretive with you; but unless I know that Mr. St. Anthony is fully cognizant of his own condition, I have no other choice."

She nodded understanding. "Okay, Mr. Roarke. But if you don't mind a little stark honesty, I have to tell you that I think this is going to be the biggest challenge you've had in quite a lot of years."

To her complete surprise, Roarke responded with a decidedly impish smile. "My dear Leslie," he said, his dark eyes sparkling, "I have no doubt that I will find this a most stimulating encounter indeed. I shall certainly enjoy the challenge."

She shook her head, snickering. "You're incorrigible!" she teased him.

Roarke leaned toward her and placed one finger against his lips. "Shh," he cautioned playfully, "don't tell anyone." Leslie let out a shout of laughter, and Roarke responded in kind—although, of course, with considerably more decorum—as they resumed their tour of inspection.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- August 24, 1991

Russell St. Anthony arrived at the tiny Fantasy Island Airport, located on the southwestern edge of the island, by private jet, a good three hours after the other guests had disembarked from the charter. The island limousine service picked him up there and brought him to the main house. It was just before noon; at that point, Leslie and Roarke were in the process of launching the fantasy of one Laurie Gibson, a twenty-five-year-old secretary still living with her parents in a hamlet called Valley Head, Alabama. Laurie's fantasy was to revisit her childhood in her native Sharon, Massachusetts.

"You see, Mr. Roarke," she said, "when I was in fifth grade, my parents decided out of the blue to move to Alabama. I turned out to be a very bad transplant. In some ways it was like moving to another country; the culture is very different from what I grew up with. By the time I realized that, my classmates had pegged me as different—and of course, to a kid, different is bad. So I never really had any friends. I want to go back to the happy part of my childhood. I've been dreaming of that for ages, and it's all I want."

"You do realize that there is no way whatsoever for you to go back permanently," Roarke said, sitting up in his chair and frowning slightly. "Even if you could remain, time inevitably passes, Miss Gibson. And one day you would find yourself reliving the move away and all the memories you have subsequently gathered."

She shrugged uncomfortably. "That wasn't exactly my intention, Mr. Roarke," she protested, though neither he nor Leslie was convinced. She seemed a little too taken aback by Roarke's gentle warning.

"Are you quite sure of that?" he queried softly, regarding her for a moment.

"Well, I know even you can't stop time, Mr. Roarke," Laurie Gibson said, sighing. "I can see your point. But I really do want to revisit those days. I even brought a video camera so I can tape it all. My memories fade a little more every year, and I wanted a way to enhance them." She caught the very surprised glances that Roarke and Leslie exchanged and leaned forward, looking anxious. "Won't it work?"

Roarke smiled faintly. "Miss Gibson, was it your intention to be merely an observer, or an active participant? For you see, I cannot reverse the fact of your chronological aging. If you wish to be an actual part of what you are revisiting, it would be necessary for you to take on another identity and try to find some way to fit into the neighborhood…whereas, if you are an observer, you can move about your surroundings without anyone seeing you." His smile bloomed fully then. "And in the latter case, yes, your video camera will work."

She grinned sheepishly while Leslie chuckled softly. "Gosh, no, it's more than enough just to watch. I don't mind being an observer, just so I can do this."

At that moment the door flew open and Russell St. Anthony strode inside, stopping at the top of the foyer steps and glaring at Roarke. "Well, I'm here. Is my chateau ready?"

Laurie Gibson had turned in her seat and was staring at him; Leslie's gaze had turned arctic. Roarke slowly arose from the chair and spoke in a carefully controlled voice. "If you will please excuse us for five minutes, Leslie and I will be with you shortly."

"Look, Roarke, I paid good money for—" St. Anthony began.

"_Out!"_ Leslie's voice cracked like a whip; she was unable to contain herself. The newcomer gave her a sharp look; but something in her fierce glare seemed to actually make him check himself, and he shrugged and went out.

Roarke paused long enough to study his daughter for a moment. "Effective, if a bit impulsive," he remarked dryly, smiling. "But thank you, Leslie." She shrugged and turned a bit pink, but smiled back.

"Mr. Roarke…was that Russell St. Anthony?" Laurie Gibson asked, amazed.

"The very same," Roarke said, resuming his seat, "but you need not concern yourself with him, Miss Gibson. Are you ready to begin your fantasy? If so, just follow Leslie through that door, and you will be on your way." He gestured at the time-travel room, whose door currently stood about half open.

"Fantastic," blurted their guest, springing to her feet and promptly forgetting about the offensive intruder. "Just show me the way."

"Right over here, Miss Gibson," Leslie said and went with her to the door. She let the other woman precede her inside, casting a speaking look at Roarke before closing the door behind her. Roarke settled back in his chair and shook his head to himself.

Not ten seconds after they had gone, the door popped open again and St. Anthony re-entered the room. "Well?" he demanded.

Roarke simply looked back at him, his dark eyes losing every drop of warmth. After a suitable interval he said, "Well, what?"

"Are you going to grant my fantasy or not?" St. Anthony snapped. "Dammit, Roarke, like I said, I paid good money for all this. Ten grand for my fantasy and another ninety thou to take the old Duncan place off your hands." He began to pace the floor just behind the club chairs. "Hell, I'll probably have to take a wrecking ball to it, since you let it go for a song. Place like that should cost easily ten times that much, so there must be huge problems with it."

"The house is structurally sound, Mr. St. Anthony," Roarke said without inflection, "although you may prefer to redecorate the interior."

"Oh, you can bet on that," St. Anthony said, rolling his eyes. "But I'll still probably have to gut the place."

"It was the only property available at the time," Roarke said.

"Yeah, well, we'll see," St. Anthony retorted. "If I find out I don't like the place, I'll pull out of the whole deal and demand my money back. Savvy?"

"That is, of course, your privilege," said Roarke, "although I dare say you might regret your choice, under the present circumstances. However, I am not one to argue semantics. You may make your decision here and now. If you decide to go through with your fantasy and move into the chateau, we will take you there as soon as my daughter has returned. If not, you may leave immediately."

"You'd cut me a check," St. Anthony said.

"Your money would be refunded," Roarke replied flatly.

Just then Leslie emerged from the time-travel room. "Well, she's on her way."

"Very good," said Roarke. "Mr. St. Anthony?"

The actor threw his hands into the air and complained, "It's about time! Well, then, let's get going. I've invested too much into this whole debacle to back out now. Take me to my chateau, and hurry up." Without waiting for them, he strode out of the house; Leslie growled low in her throat, and Roarke loosed one short voiceless chuckle at her reaction as he arose and accompanied her out in St. Anthony's wake.

St. Anthony saw fit to complain about several things on their way to the Enclave; Roarke did not comment, acting as though he were deaf, and Leslie had to keep reminding herself that, when all was said and done, this insufferable person was still their guest and must be treated accordingly. She dared not open her mouth for fear she'd speak her mind.

When they pulled up in front of St. Anthony's new acquisition, the sight of the place finally silenced him, and he stared at it in disbelief. Roarke and Leslie had joined him at the side of the car before he recovered enough to shake his head. "Holy hell on wheels. I paid ninety grand for a place that looks like Dracula's vacation home."

"There is still time to reconsider your purchase," Roarke said.

St. Anthony let his head hang and shook it, heaving a sigh. "Well, I suppose I can't have my fantasy granted any other way. Aw, hell. I guess it's worth a look."

Their subsequent tour of the inside of the mansion produced a book's worth of sarcastic remarks from St. Anthony, forcing Leslie to restrain herself to a point at which Roarke began to wonder how long it would be before she lost control. Reinforcing that control with a very stern glance of warning, he then guided St. Anthony back to the cavernous entry hall. The chandelier, meticulously cleaned the previous day, lit the entire area with a bright glow.

"What the hell happened in that dungeon?" St. Anthony muttered, glancing back toward the door that led to it. "Looks like that's where the Spanish Inquisition got its start." He didn't notice Leslie's wince. "And these rooms are musty-smelling, and the furniture and décor are the ugliest I've ever seen. The previous owner must've been one amazing wacko to have something this Gothic. That statue in the fountain out front just plain creeps me out, and it's going as soon as I can figure out who'll take it."

"I presume that means you are planning to stay," Roarke said.

St. Anthony clapped his mouth shut in surprise, stared at him, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that's what it means. Well, then, what about my fantasy?"

"That's up to you," said Roarke. "I have provided the means and the locale; the rest, you must supply. Enjoy your new home, Mr. St. Anthony. Please excuse us. Leslie?"

St. Anthony stared at them in disbelief as they started out the front door at a brisk walk. "You have to be joking!" he yelled when they didn't stop. "You're just leaving me in this rat trap? Do I have anything to eat? Where the hell are my suitcases?" Neither Roarke nor Leslie broke stride; they seemed to be practicing selective deafness. St. Anthony's ranting died away when the door closed behind them.

"Great," he muttered, staring around him. "Just great. Well, hell, maybe the phone works." Unused to fending for himself, he poked around four rooms before finally discovering a large black rotary-dial telephone in the kitchen, sitting atop the Fantasy Island phone directory. Wondering if it had been a mistake to leave his entourage behind after all, he pulled the phone book out and paged through it in idle curiosity; the entire directory was all of twenty pages thick, counting both business and residential numbers. Shaking his head, he hunted for caterers' listings and found there were only two. If he must eat alone and order his own food, he was at least going to eat well; and there might be leftovers. He chose one of the caterers at random and dialed 396.

On the other end came a voice. "Tomai's Catering, may we help you?"

"Yes, you may," St. Anthony said. "I want something to eat, and I want it delivered." He proceeded to describe exactly what he was looking for. "Do that and there might be a tip in it for you."

Silence on the other end…then, "How many people will this be for?"

"One," he said. "Myself."

More silence. Finally the voice said, "I'm sorry, sir, but we cater for large groups only, not individuals. There are restaurants that will be happy to fill your order, but we're not equipped for that. Have a good afternoon, sir."

"Wait," St. Anthony yelled into the phone. "I'm a paying customer. Are you people catering something tonight, or what?"

A sigh gusted over the line. "No, sir, we're not…but…"

"Then there's nothing stopping you from filling my order. In my experience, caterers usually have better cooking than restaurants; and if you prepare about half what you normally would for a party, then I'll have enough leftovers to last me at least a week and you won't have to deal with me." _Nor I with you,_ he added snidely, without saying it.

"Then you're going to have a long wait for your order, sir," the voice told him.

"How long can I expect it to take?" he demanded.

"If you want quality food, then you'll have to schedule the meal for suppertime. If you're hungry right now, then you'll have to either order from one of the restaurants, or settle for grilled hot dogs."

In spite of himself, St. Anthony cracked out a laugh. "I loathe hot dogs," he admitted through a long sigh. "Oh, all right. Then if that's the way it has to be, bring it here for six, no later. Meantime, maybe you can recommend a half-decent restaurant. And don't make it the hotel restaurant. That snob of a French chef really gets on my nerves."

A reluctant chuckle sounded from the other end. "You wouldn't be the first one. Well, in that case, you'll have to call the only other restaurant on the island. The number's 505. Good luck, sir."

"I might need it," said St. Anthony disparagingly and disconnected the call without either a thank-you or a goodbye. Then he dialed the number he'd been given, muttering at the old rotary dial and how long it seemed to take. "This old thing really has to go… Oh, yeah. Listen, I want you to deliver some lunch…"

‡ ‡ ‡

The phone rang at the main house a little past two. Roarke had gone out to check on one of the fantasies, leaving Leslie sorting out bills and fantasy requests from the day's mail. She picked up the phone and murmured distractedly, "Main house."

"Did you and Roarke mean to strand me here?" demanded a voice on the other end. "I need a car, dammit! I want one right now, and you better get it here within half an hour."

Leslie sat up straight and glared at the wall across from the desk. Several retorts sprang to mind, but she took great care to restrain herself. "You're going to have to allow me time to find one that isn't in use for the weekend. I'll have one brought to you as soon as I'm able to do that."

"Well, hurry up. This place is a total dump, and I want to get out of here and find some people who're willing to whip it into shape for me before I have to sleep here."

"Fine, Mr. St. Anthony," she said tightly and managed to hang up on him before he did it to her first. Slamming a hand onto the desktop in frustration, she grabbed the phone again and made several calls in fairly rapid succession. She had finally managed to line up a jeep for St. Anthony's use and was preparing to leave the house when Roarke came back in and stopped to watch.

"Is there a problem, Leslie?" he asked.

"Our favorite new resident wants a car at his disposal," she told him, removing a key from the gold box on the desk. "I finally tracked down a jeep that was free for awhile, and I'm meeting Mateo out front so I can bring him back when we've delivered the goods."

Roarke chuckled almost inaudibly. "I see," he said. "Well, when you have dropped off the jeep and Mateo, would you please go to the hotel and check with Jean-Claude as to this evening's menu. And while you are at the chateau, remind Mr. St. Anthony about the luau this evening."

"If you insist," she said with a shrug. "I'll be back a little later."

"Try to be patient with him, Leslie," Roarke suggested gently, catching her arm as she started past him toward the foyer. "He has a great deal on his mind."

"It's very difficult, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said. "He doesn't request anything, he demands it. And he never expresses any kind of gratitude. What on earth makes him such a total jerk anyway? Why would he treat people like that?"

"That's a question only Mr. St. Anthony can answer," Roarke told her.

She sighed. "I suppose so. But in the meantime, it'd be nice if he'd act just a little more like the first part of his surname." She left the house, leaving Roarke laughing quietly behind her, and stepped off the veranda just in time to see a Polynesian driver pull around the bend in the lane with the jeep St. Anthony had insisted on.

At the Duncan chateau, Mateo parked behind the station wagon and settled himself into its passenger seat while Leslie went to the gate and unlocked it with the key Roarke still had. Then she went to the double front doors and expended some of her frustration with their recalcitrant guest by giving one of the lion's-head knockers a good, solid, noisy workout. After less than five seconds the door flew open and St. Anthony glared at her. "For crying out loud, you trying to break the door down?"

"Your jeep is here," Leslie said curtly, displaying the keys at him. They looked at each other for a long moment after St. Anthony swiped the keys out of her fingers; then she added sarcastically, "You're welcome. Oh yes, and the luau's tonight." She turned to leave.

"Just a minute, Miss Hamilton," St. Anthony said, and she paused, turning back to give him a wary stare. "Roarke manages to be civil to me. Why can't you?"

"Oh," she said in a tone of light mockery, "I suppose you didn't know. Mr. Roarke and I are well aware of how you treated Michiko Tokita. She filled us in on quite a bit about your womanizing ways and how callously you treat them when you're tired of them. And in case you wonder why I'm reacting so strongly to her revelations, you might as well know—she's been a dear friend of mine for almost half my life. Michiko's no fool and I've never known her to lie. So I freely admit to being highly biased against you, Mr. St. Anthony. If you'll kindly excuse me, I have things to do." Once again Leslie started for the gate; this time St. Anthony let her go, staring after her.

_Michiko got around, all right, _he thought, scowling, though mainly at himself. _I still can't believe she hooked up with a freaking prince, of all things. She was just a little kid from some no-name place when I first met her, and now I find out she's a Fantasy Islander, and about to be a princess and someday a queen._ He heaved a deep sigh, closing the door long after Leslie and Mateo had disappeared in the station wagon. _I gotta admit, she was a lot sweeter and less demanding than most of the women I've known. She was the one who made me see the—_ As if in response to the half-finished thought, a blinding pain shot through his head and he cried out sharply, dropping the keys Leslie had given him and clapping his hands to the sides of his head. His vision blurred and brightly-colored stars floated across what remained of his eyesight. His head felt as though it were going to split in two; at the moment that would have come as a relief. Cursing the air blue, he sank to his knees, moaning. For a moment he gritted his teeth, hoping this would help, but this pain was the longest one yet. Desperate, Russell St. Anthony threw his head back and screamed at the ceiling some twenty feet overhead.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- August 24, 1991

The sun was just setting when the Tomai's Catering van pulled to a halt in the circular drive near the gate. Someone had rigged up a bell, about a foot in diameter, on a post driven into the ground just in front of the gate, and Maureen Tomai looked at it with surprise before shrugging and swinging the clapper back and forth with some gusto. The resulting clanging echoed off the retaining wall and sent quite a few birds sailing out of the trees, startled by the sudden racket.

The double doors popped open and Russell St. Anthony strode to the gate, more irritable than usual. "What the hell do you want?" he barked.

Maureen turned to stare at him, and her green eyes went wide with recognition for just a moment before narrowing and frosting over. "Hm," she mumbled to herself before speaking up in an icy tone. "The meal you ordered is here." St. Anthony stared at her for long enough that she planted her hands on her hips and demanded, "Do you want it or not?"

"Who are you?" he asked without replying to the question.

"Tomai's Catering," she told him. "You called us at lunchtime and ordered quite a bit of food from us. It's here, so where do you want it?"

"Oh," he said foolishly, still staring at her as if he had never seen a woman before. "Uh…just bring it in the kitchen." She tossed her head, turned and began to assist her mother's employees with the food while St. Anthony fumbled with the lock and managed to get it undone, swinging the gate open and then following Maureen closely when she came inside with the first couple of items.

In the kitchen she set them down on the counter and then all but tripped over him when she turned to go get more. "Do you mind not tailgating me, Mr. St. Anthony?" she said, frowning at him and stepping around him.

"Wait," he said, grabbing her arm. She shook it off, her frown growing increasingly annoyed. He cleared his throat and said, "Ex…excuse me," as if experimenting with an unfamiliar language.

"What is it?" Maureen asked with strained patience.

"I…" St. Anthony drew in a breath; never in his life had he been so taken off balance by a woman, and the feeling unnerved him so much that he snapped out the next words. "Stay here and eat with me."

"I can't do that," Maureen replied in a clipped, professional voice. "I'm working tonight. Sorry." She dodged him and made her escape; he ran after her, determined to get her to talk to him.

"Please, for heaven's sake, wait!" he cried, stopping her in the entry in spite of herself. She sighed in exasperation and turned to face him, and he approached her with both palms in front of him, a supplicating expression on his face. "Please, I'd really appreciate the company. If you have to, call the caterers and tell them you're here with me, and I'll make your excuses. I'll even pay you for your time. But please, stay and share my dinner."

Maureen stared at him, perplexed. "What for?"

St. Anthony seriously considered her question for a moment. "Well…as a matter of fact, I've never met a woman who looked like you," he confessed frankly. "Those eyes of yours. Most green eyes have a washed-out look to them, like a bleached-out leaf or something. But yours are different—they make me think of emeralds, or the way the hills in Ireland look in the spring." He became aware of the dubious look she was aiming at him, and grinned for the first time since he'd stepped foot on the island that morning. "Yeah, I know. Trite and stupid and all that, and it sounds like a cheap line, and I must be coming on to you, blah blah blah."

"Well, I hate to confirm your own suspicions, but that's exactly what it sounds like," Maureen agreed. "If you fed poor Michiko lines like that, I'm amazed she fell for it."

St. Anthony's face went slack and he let his hands fall to his sides. "Christ on a crutch," he snapped, "did this entire island know her personally or what?" Once again Maureen's gaze iced over and he reached out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I seem to keep running into…well, I mean, I'm just tired of my fickle past coming back to haunt me."

Maureen smiled faintly and said, "Well, maybe if your past hadn't been so fickle, it wouldn't be coming back to haunt you."

To his own surprise, St. Anthony laughed. "I like you," he said cheerfully. "I think you're the first woman in years who hasn't been bowled over by my practiced lines or intimidated by my smart mouth. And I actually admit I have a smart mouth and practiced lines." His laugh settled into a broad grin and he extended both hands to her. "Please," he entreated one last time, his voice softening, "stay and eat with me. This place is very lonely, and I've been feeling isolated all day. Please, will you?"

"Well, I might," she said slowly, "but I really can't. Staying here to eat with you wouldn't be much of an excuse for skipping out on my job. I might get grounded." She chuckled at her own small joke, and he tipped his head to the side, quizzical. "Oh. Well, my mother owns the catering company. My name's Maureen Tomai."

"Ah," he said and smiled. "Maureen Tomai, you and your amazing green eyes are a vision, and I'm sure that vision will occupy my dreams all night long. Come on, come in here and call your mother for me, and put me on the line so I can explain to her. I want you to stay here, and I promise to compensate you for any time you lose on the job. I just need a dinner companion and someone to talk to."

She stood for a very long minute or so, wavering. "I really shouldn't," she mumbled at last. "I shouldn't and I know it…but I'm going to." St. Anthony beamed and took her hand, all but towing her to the kitchen. "I just hope I won't regret it."

§ § § -- September 18, 1991

St. Anthony had been living on the island for about three weeks when he made his way to the main house one Wednesday evening. He looked a bit wan, but he was curiously deferential. "Mr. Roarke?" he said, poking his head through the open French shutters. "Am I interrupting anything?"

Roarke and Leslie, conferring together on a proposal by the operators of the island's amusement park to add a water slide, looked up. "Ah, Mr. St. Anthony," Roarke said. "No, not at all. Come in and have a seat."

"Thank you," the actor replied and walked in, lifting both hands to his head and wincing. Leslie watched, mystified; Roarke's expression acquired a touch of concern. St. Anthony sighed deeply when he had settled himself into a chair. "Well," he said. "It's good to get out of that morbid hellhole I bought from you last month."

"What brings you here?" asked Leslie neutrally.

"I just wanted to tell you…" St. Anthony hesitated, glancing back and forth between his hosts, then frowned and squeezed his eyes closed, reaching up and massaging his forehead with the tips of his fingers. "Mr. Roarke, please accept my apologies for my rudeness to you on prior occasions. You managed to come through for me, in a way I never anticipated." He looked up and smiled with an uncharacteristically diffident mien about him.

"Indeed," Roarke said, eyebrows lifting with interest. "How so?"

"I've met the most amazing young woman," St. Anthony said, leaning forward in his chair. "She has a good level head on her shoulders, and she's intelligent as they come. I've been having her over as a guest on as many evenings as she'll come, just for dinner and some conversation, and we've become friends. Imagine that, Mr. Roarke. Friends!" He sat back and stared out one of the windows behind Roarke and Leslie with a wondering look. "As far back as I can remember, this woman is the first real friend I've ever had."

"I see," said Roarke, a faint smile playing about his lips. "Who is the lady in question, if I may ask?"

"Oh, ask away," St. Anthony said with a grin that made Leslie blink a few times and peer at him more carefully, unsure she was really seeing such an expression on the actor so famous for being demanding and cantankerous. "Her name's Maureen Tomai."

"You're joking," Leslie blurted without thinking.

"Not at all, Miss Hamilton," St. Anthony said, smile lingering. "Not at all. She's been quite a stimulating companion to me. The first night I was in the chateau, she delivered my dinner to me, and I talked her into staying and sharing it with me. Since then she's been a regular guest. And she's amazing. She does chat with me, but most of the time she simply lets me ramble. She makes the most incredible listener, Mr. Roarke. I could look into those lovely green eyes of hers and carry on for days. Those eyes…the first day I saw them, something about them inspired trust in me."

"You must have once known someone with eyes that color," Roarke suggested.

St. Anthony closed his eyes and winced. "Yeah…I…I can just barely remember my mother. Her eyes looked like that." He opened his eyes again and stared at nothing. "She died when I was almost four. It was like she abandoned me. But when she was alive, there was no one else I trusted that much as a small child." He focused on Roarke. "And to meet someone with eyes the color of my mother's…don't know how you did that, Roarke, but I have to admit to being impressed. She's made my days more bearable." A spasm crossed his face and he again massaged his forehead, with more vigor than before.

"Are you all right?" Leslie finally asked.

Roarke glanced at his daughter, studied the actor and then said quietly, "Have you told Miss Tomai yet, Mr. St. Anthony?"

St. Anthony seemed to abruptly forget his pain and stared at Roarke in disbelief. His normal irritability returned to the fore and he demanded, "What do you know, Roarke?"

"The question here might more correctly be, do _you_ know, Mr. St. Anthony?" Roarke countered quietly.

St. Anthony got up and tried to pace the floor, but he was assaulted by a spasm that made him double over and was forced to stop and grab the chair, supporting himself with both hands on its back. "There's nothing to know," he said, a twinge of desperation in his tone.

"Stop denying the truth," Roarke said severely, rising in his turn. "I believe you are fully aware of it, especially now that your deterioration has advanced to this point. Are you planning to inform Miss Tomai, if you have not already done so?"

"If you think you know so much, Roarke," St. Anthony growled, "then suppose you stop dancing around the subject and just say it in so many words." Yet another pain hit him and he grimaced in agony, teeth bared and eyes screwed shut, slowly wilting over the back of the chair. He moaned with such pain that Leslie's expression reflected empathetic awareness, and Roarke closed his eyes for a moment.

"You are dying, Mr. St. Anthony," he said at last.

The words seemed to bounce around the room. Leslie whipped her head around and stared at Roarke. "Dying?" she repeated.

St. Anthony lifted his head as the pain subsided and began to pant heavily, a measure of relief on his face. He returned Leslie's astonished scrutiny. "He's right," he told her. "I have a brain aneurysm—inoperable. It's the same thing that killed my mother."

Roarke nodded faintly. "How long have you been given?"

"The last time I saw a doctor was two days before I flew out here," St. Anthony said. "From that point, he gave me about three months at maximum. The thing's buried so deep in my brain that modern medicine just can't get to it. Roarke…" He looked up abruptly and stared with new hope in his eyes. "Do you have a cure?"

Regret filled Roarke's dark eyes and he slowly shook his head. "I am sorry, Mr. St. Anthony," he said softly. His voice carried an undercurrent of a very personal pain, and Leslie suddenly remembered Helena Marsh: Roarke's wife of five days had died of a similar affliction nearly twelve years before, and he had been unable to do anything for her. She stood up beside him and slipped her hand into his; he squeezed hers in acknowledgment.

St. Anthony mumbled a halfhearted curse, as though he'd expected such an answer. "I have no descendants," he said painfully, pushing himself off the back of the chair with an effort and taking slow but determined steps across the Persian rug. "When I got the news, I realized a lot of things that I had never bothered to think about before. All I've done all my life is perform roles onstage—submerging myself in fictional personae. It was a way to deny what was happening to me. I'd get sick periodically, and Pete and the others on my staff would tell me to slow down and mellow out. I never paid any attention. Nobody ever understood what made me _me_…what made Russell St. Anthony the Beast of Broadway. And then I met Michiko Tokita, and she was more sensitive than most. She's the one who talked me into seeing a doctor, and that's when I found out what I had.

"I could tell she was expecting me to put a ring on her finger, but I just couldn't do it. I seem to have inherited this thing from my mother, and I'll be damned right to hell if I pass it down to any children. Yet…a man's immortality is his offspring, and I'm beginning to think I might want a kid after all. But it's selfish. I can't do that to a child of mine, and I don't want to leave some poor woman in the lurch…"

"And that's why you pushed Michiko away from you," Leslie said.

St. Anthony nodded. "Yes, that's why. I loved her about as much as I was ever capable of loving anyone, and the day that prince announced his engagement to her, I was finally forced to face the complete reality of my situation." He straightened up slowly and painfully. "I'm dying, and I've wasted the love of at least one very good woman. To answer your question, Roarke, no…I haven't told Maureen about the aneurysm."

"How can you continue to hide it from her?" Roarke asked practically. "You must realize, Mr. St. Anthony, that eventually she will notice that something is amiss, if she hasn't already. It's plain to see that your painful spells are increasing in frequency and intensity. Eventually you will be unable to function on your own, and there will be no recourse other than to check you into the hospital."

"From which I'll never check out again," St. Anthony said. "At least, not alive."

"Unfortunately, yes," said Roarke, voice quieting. "And then, where does that leave Miss Tomai? She will be forced to find the truth; and perhaps Leslie, as her close friend, will find herself forced to explain it to her. No, Mr. St. Anthony, it's only fair to tell her." He gently disengaged his hand from Leslie's and leaned on the desk, piercing St. Anthony with an intense gaze. "If you care about her as your friend, as you claim to do, you _must_ tell her."

"Damn it," mumbled St. Anthony, looking exhausted. "I know you're right, Roarke, but how can I do that? I wouldn't hurt her for anything…because, as ridiculous as you'll probably find this, I think I'm in love with her. Truly and honestly in love, like I've never been before." He returned Roarke's minute scrutiny. "That," he said fiercely, "I categorically refuse to tell her. She considers me a friend and I can see that's all it'll ever be. I'd rather minimize her pain when my end comes."

"That's up to you," Roarke said without argument. "Your feelings for Miss Tomai are entirely your affair. But she does deserve to know the truth of your condition."

"Maureen's pretty tough," Leslie ventured gently. "She'll be able to take it, I think. As Mr. Roarke said, it's better you tell her in advance. And when you do, enjoy your friendship with her, and leave her with some good memories. That'll be your best legacy to her."

St. Anthony studied her with surprise, then smiled a little. "Thank you, Miss Hamilton," he said. "You've just convinced me. Thank you. I'll go now and tell her, if you'll both excuse me." They nodded and watched him labor his way out the shutter doors once more; neither spoke till he had pushed through the bushes that screened the terrace.

Then Roarke turned to Leslie with an impressed expression. "Very wise words, my daughter," he said with a smile. "Very wise indeed."

Leslie looked up at him with a wistful glint in her eyes. "I spoke from experience. Remember when Tattoo said at the gala that I'd eventually remember Teppo with more smiles than tears? That made me think, and I realized he was right. I have so many beautiful memories of my years with him. And if St. Anthony can leave Maureen some memories like that, it'll be easier for her, too."

Roarke's smile widened and he hugged her. "So it will. And in his last days, I believe he himself will be enriched by his friendship with her."

"I think he already is," Leslie murmured, and Roarke nodded.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- August 24, 1991

Maureen had begun to wonder a bit about St. Anthony, who looked more and more drawn and pale each time she saw him. Theirs was a strange sort of friendship; they never saw each other outside St. Anthony's chateau, and in fact they didn't even leave the dining room. She had the evening off from the caterer, but she wasn't eating at the chateau; she'd meant to have a quiet evening at home watching a couple of favorite TV programs and then call it a night. But in the middle of the second show, her buzzer sounded and she sat up in surprise. No one but her friends came to see her this late in the evening, and they didn't do that very often. So she was amazed to see her visitor. "Russell?" she said.

"Hi, Maureen," he said. "I hope you don't mind my dropping by."

"No…come in," she said, watching him in high curiosity. "What brings you all the way over here? I hope everything's okay."

St. Anthony sighed and scrubbed his drawn features with his hands, shaking his head after a long moment. "No, it's not, I'm sorry to say. Maureen, please, don't be too shocked by this revelation. I just came back from a little chat with Roarke and Miss Hamilton—by the way, I had no idea you two knew each other—and she said something that really made me think. And I decided it's time to come clean with you."

"Don't tell me," Maureen kidded, trying to cover up her sudden nervousness. "You're an escaped ax murderer posing as Russell St. Anthony."

"No, my dear friend, I really am St. Anthony, more's the pity," he remarked wryly. "Uh, is it all right if I sit down?"

"Oh, of course," she blurted hastily, taking his arm. He shot her an impatient look and tugged it away from her, making his way stubbornly on his own to the nearest chair and sinking into it with overt relief.

"No trying to help me," he said with some of his customary prickliness. "I'm going to make it on my own as long as I damn well can."

Maureen settled on the ottoman in front of the chair he had taken. "Russell, quit stalling and just tell me what's wrong."

He regarded her, apparently processing her blunt request, then nodded. "Your friend Miss Hamilton said you could probably take it. Well, then, to be very succinct and direct about it, I'm dying. I have a brain aneurysm that's too deep in my head to be removed, and it's going to kill me somewhere in the next couple of months or so."

She stared at him, absorbing this news in stunned silence; he just watched her while she let it sink in. Then she turned her head aside and blew out a breath. "That explains your pallor and the headaches you keep getting, and how you seem to be having more trouble walking. How long have you had this thing?"

"Long enough," he said shortly. "It's probably hereditary. My mother died for the same reason. In any case, that's most likely the reason I've never gone so far as to start a family. Any child I father would probably die of the same cause, at too young an age. The problem there is that I don't have any siblings and no descendants, so I've been trying to think of the best way to dispose of my assets. Roarke was kind enough to let me spend my last days here, and I had the great good fortune to meet you and gain your friendship; so I feel like I'm redeeming myself just a little for all the misery I've undoubtedly caused countless people in my time. I'm sure my death will be celebrated by quite a large percentage of the theater community in New York City."

"That's being a little harsh," Maureen observed, "even for you."

St. Anthony shrugged, plainly past caring. "Let 'em have their good time. My world's narrowed down to what I still own and what should be done with it…squaring away my affairs while I still can, before I get beyond help and can't even open my eyes without someone there to do it for me." He studied her curiously. "You know any good lawyers?"

"No," she said, eyeing him. "Maybe you should check with Mr. Roarke. He knows everyone—it's his island, after all. Well, since you clearly don't want any help, I won't offer it. But as long as you're up to dinner company, I'll be there."

"That's all I ask of you," St. Anthony said, finally cracking a smile and leaning slowly forward. "You're a good person, Maureen, better than I deserve gracing my dinner table in that Gothic horror I call home now. You know, I never did manage to get rid of that nasty little statue in that fountain out front." They both chuckled ruefully.

"I can see why," she admitted with a grin. "So…I suppose you already thought of asking Mr. Roarke if there's some way he could help you."

"Yes, but he said he can't," St. Anthony said. "I've resigned myself, Maureen, and I think you should too. I just thought it was better you know, so that it won't come as quite such a shock when it happens."

Maureen raked a hand through her fine, pale-blonde hair and then reached out and slipped it into one of his. "I guess it's confession time. When I first met you, I had preconceived notions about you, mostly due to the vats of negative ink that have been spilled about you in the press, as well as Michiko's revelations last month. But there's more to you than meets the eye. I really never thought I'd say this to someone like you, but…well, I'm glad I had the chance to get to know you, and I feel privileged to call you my friend."

"You should," St. Anthony said, raising one eyebrow. "I can't remember ever having had a real friend in my entire life before you. A serious deficiency that's finally being remedied. Thank you for that." He shoved himself to his feet with considerable effort and began to make his way to the door. "I'll leave you to your evening, Maureen, but thanks for letting me interrupt long enough to tell you the truth."

"Try to have a good night, Russell," she said quietly. He raised a hand in farewell and let himself out; she stared at the closed door for a full minute before shutting off the television set and getting ready for bed. To her own surprise, she already missed him.

§ § § -- October 14, 1991

It was an early supper for them; St. Anthony regarded the spread on the dining-room table as he eased himself into a chair. "Why didn't you sell the table too?" Maureen asked him with black humor, referring to the auction that had been held earlier that day selling off a wide assortment of St. Anthony's belongings. Most of them had come from his New York apartment, although quite a bit consisted of things from the chateau. Nearly everything had been sold, and the auction had drawn a large crowd—not only of Roarke's many vacationing guests, but most of his employees when they were able to get away from work to attend, and at least one fantasizer whose dream it had been to meet St. Anthony and have him autograph something for her. She'd gone away with three scripts from his Broadway shows, all of which he had signed (though only after Maureen had talked him into it), and Roarke had quietly thanked him before vanishing into the crowd.

"Now, come on," St. Anthony said, "if I'd sold the table, we'd be eating off the floor."

"Could've been like a picnic," she bantered.

He rolled his eyes. "I always did hate picnics," he snorted. "Damned uncivilized, eating off a blanket on the ground and battling the ants for your meal. I think not. Besides, if I sat down on the floor like that, chances are I'd never make it back up again. Not without a lot of help, at any rate."

Maureen sighed tolerantly. "Yes, and I know how you are about having anyone help you. Well, come on, let's see what we've got this time."

St. Anthony stared across the table at her. "I don't think I have any appetite left. My head's been like a neon sign all day long, flashing pain at me till I can't see. I got sick after lunch. I won't risk that again. It's not a pretty sight."

"On to other things," she suggested delicately, evoking a grin out of him. "It's okay if you don't want anything. What's your head feel like now?"

"Quiet at the moment," he said thoughtfully, running a couple of fingertips along his scalp as if searching for an invisible switch that might be responsible for controlling the onset of his pain attacks. "Frankly, I'm glad that auction's over. Not that I cared all that much about seeing a pile of artifacts being distributed among my few misguided admirers and my many well-informed detractors—" At that moment he sucked in a sharp, hissing breath and clapped his hands to both sides of his head. Maureen's head jerked up and she stared at him with wide, alarmed eyes, waiting to see if the pain would subside as it always had before.

But this time it seemed to expand till it would burst his head apart. St. Anthony fell back in his chair; his initial moan grew into a howl, then an agonized scream toward the ceiling overhead. Frozen with terror, she gaped helplessly while he rocked from side to side in his chair, pleading inarticulately for the pain to stop. Then his eyes popped wide for just one moment before he toppled sideways out of the chair and hit the floor with a jarring thump that finally brought her to her feet.

"Russell," she screamed frantically, kneeling at his side, "say something."

He stared at her without really seeing her, and his last words were an almost dreamy whisper. "Be happy," he murmured, and then fell still.

For a long time Maureen knelt there by the actor's lifeless body, tears cascading unnoticed down her cheeks, unable to summon the wherewithal to call anyone for help. He was beyond saving now, and she somehow felt the same way.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- October 15, 1991

Grady Harding, the attorney St. Anthony had retained on Roarke's recommendation, stood in the middle of Roarke's office at the main house, regarding the tiny gathering there. It consisted of only three persons: Roarke, Leslie Hamilton, and Maureen Tomai, the last-named of whom stared at nothing, her eyes dull and bloodshot, but dry. Roarke sat behind the desk; Leslie and Maureen each occupied a club chair.

"I realize Russell's death occurred only yesterday," Harding said, kneeling before Maureen and putting a hand on her arm, "but it was his specific request that I read his will before you, Miss Hamilton and Mr. Roarke here at the main house on the day after he died. So this is part of his last wishes, Miss Tomai."

Maureen nodded. "I understand, Mr. Harding," she said softly. "To be honest with you, I wouldn't have thought there'd be much to the will. When Russell first told me about his aneurysm, he said he was going to get rid of everything he possibly could before he got past the point where he could do it himself. Considering how stubborn and determined he was, and after that auction yesterday, I'm sure that's just what he did."

"Oh, but he didn't quite unload everything," Harding said gently, patting her arm and standing up again. "Mr. Roarke, if I might go ahead with the reading of the will?"

"By all means," Roarke said, nodding.

"All right. The document I hold here is the last will and testament of Russell Parks St. Anthony, dated September 30, 1991, signed, witnessed and duly notarized according to island and international law. To wit: 'I, Russell Parks St. Anthony, being of sound mind, do hereby declare this to be my final will, superseding any and all previous documents made by me. It is my wish that my attorney, Grady M. Harding, dispose of the following remaining properties in the stated manner.' " Harding paused, glanced over a couple of the items, then actually smiled. "Here's a surprise. 'Item One: penthouse apartment, 2510 5th Avenue, New York City, New York, United States of America, is hereby deeded to Miss Michiko Tokita, currently of the Kingdom of Arcolos, and her affianced husband, Prince Errico V, of the named principality. Use or disposal of same shall be theirs to decide as they see fit.' I see I'll have to contact the prince and Miss Tokita."

Leslie and Maureen looked at each other with identical dubious smiles; then Leslie aimed hers at Roarke, who smiled back serenely. "That shouldn't be difficult, Mr. Harding," he said. "My daughter knows the couple and can provide you with the means by which to get in touch with them. Please continue."

"Good, that'll simplify matters," Harding said. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke. 'Item Two: remaining artwork, consisting of the following: five paintings by Picasso; three paintings by Toulouse-Lautrec; two paintings by Edvard Munch; four paintings by Tattoo; one painting by Van Gogh. These are to be turned over to Mr. Roarke and Miss Leslie Hamilton of Fantasy Island for use or disposal as they see fit, in thanks for their gift of sanctuary in my final days.' "

"Well," said Roarke, very surprised and not bothering to conceal it.

"He had good taste, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said with a grin. "Did you hear?…he had four of Tattoo's works." They all laughed softly.

"I'll see they're delivered here within the week, Mr. Roarke," Harding said and put his attention back to the will. "And finally… 'Item Three: chateau, the Enclave, Fantasy Island, is hereby deeded to Miss Maureen Tomai, including all contents, the grounds, and any outbuildings within the retaining walls. Use or disposal of same is hers as she sees fit.' "

Maureen rocked back in her chair, stunned. "Good God," she said. "I own that huge house now? What on earth am I going to do with it?"

"Whatever you wish, Maureen," Roarke said with a whimsical smile, "precisely as stated in Mr. St. Anthony's will. In other words, you may let it stand as it is; you may move into it; you may even tear it down. As I recall, Mr. St. Anthony initially contemplated doing just that." The girls laughed and Harding shook his head, grinning. "You need not decide immediately. There is plenty of time to consider your options, and your first priority will be dealing with your feelings in the wake of Mr. St. Anthony's passing."

Maureen nodded slowly and thoughtfully, then sighed. "What surprises me is how much I miss him," she admitted. "When he first told me he had the aneurysm, I confessed that I'd had preconceived notions about him before I got to know him. I don't know why he let me get that close to him, but in any case, he turned out not to be so bad." She looked up. "He might still have been the Beast of Broadway, but with me he let his guard down. Maybe I'll never know why…"

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, and Roarke nodded and extended his hand toward her, palm up, for a moment, indicating that she should go ahead and speak. Leslie turned to her friend and said, "Well, I can answer that for you. He came to see us just before he went to your place to tell you about the aneurysm, and to make a long story short, he said he was drawn to you because of your eyes. His mother had the same color eyes you do, and he told us she was the one person he had truly trusted as a small boy."

"Oh," Maureen said, thinking this over. After a moment the eyes that had so captivated Russell St. Anthony filled with tears, and she smiled faintly. "Thank you for telling me that." She pushed herself to her feet and bit her lip. "I don't want to seem like I'm running out, but I have some thinking to do."

"Of course," Roarke said. "Completely understandable."

"If you need to talk, I'm always here," Leslie added.

Maureen smiled wanly at her. "I know, and thanks," she said, turning to leave through the foyer door. Grady Harding stepped forward.

"At the risk of seeming presumptuous and forward…can I drop you off somewhere?" he asked. She stopped and eyed the lawyer curiously.

"I'd appreciate that," she said and smiled at him. "Thank you."

When they had departed together, Leslie blew out a long sigh and slumped back in her chair, reviewing the last twenty minutes or so in her mind. "I admit to wondering just what she's going to do with that place," she finally remarked to Roarke.

"I'm sure she will let you in on her plans," Roarke said. "Meantime, there are still a few hours in which it will be necessary to complete a few errands before dinner, and now that we have discovered we are the inheritors of fifteen paintings, you might additionally give some thought to exactly what we are to do with them when they arrive here."

Leslie grinned. "I'm sure I can manage that. Well, then, I'll see you at supper."

‡ ‡ ‡

Two days later she met Maureen by chance in Amberville while she was dropping off a stack of outgoing letters at the post office. "How're you getting on?" she asked.

"Not as bad as you might think," Maureen said and smiled. "A lot more good has come out of all this than I expected. Remember how Russell's lawyer offered to drop me off somewhere the other day? Well, we started talking, and the next thing you know he was asking me out to dinner. For a lawyer, he's not a bad guy."

Leslie laughed. "Grady Harding is a rarity in the legal world," she remarked. "He's a good, honest, ethical lawyer with his priorities in the right place. It's my understanding that he came to the island about fifteen years ago to defend someone in the fishing village who was suspected of some serious crime, and it so happened that Mr. Roarke was called as a witness to testify, because the accused person was one of his employees. He was impressed by Mr. Harding's professionalism and expertise, and asked him to stay on and set up a practice here once the trial was over. In fact, it was Mr. Harding's very first case, fresh out of law school. The thing is, he'd actually had a fantasy: he wanted to prove to himself and his father, who was a hotshot lawyer who used every sneaky tactic in the book to win his cases, that he could successfully defend a case without resorting to underhanded methods. He did, and he's been here ever since."

"Wow," said Maureen. "Thanks for telling me that, Leslie. Now I'm really interested in this guy, even if he is noticeably older than I am."

"Aw, don't let that bother you," Leslie said. "What're you doing out and about?"

Maureen assumed an air of overdone dignity and announced, "I am about to purchase a mallet. Care to help me choose one?"

"A _what?"_ blurted Leslie through a startled laugh.

"A mallet," Maureen said and then snickered. "You'll see why. Come on."

"I wouldn't miss this for anything," Leslie said. "You've got my curiosity at an all-time high here. Lead on, MacDuff."

About half an hour later, having secured the item she was after, Maureen climbed into the station wagon with Leslie and told her friend to head for St. Anthony's chateau. Leslie gave her a sidelong glance of perplexity, but shrugged and acquiesced, wondering all the way to the Enclave just what was going on.

At the chateau Maureen unlocked the gate and swung it wide, then made a sweeping gesture indicating that Leslie should precede her inside. Once in, Leslie watched Maureen close the gate and then lean on the mallet, grinning wickedly. "Come on, Tomai, give over," she said finally. "What's this all about?"

"I'm about to destroy something in Russell's name," Maureen told her. "See that ugly statue in the fountain? Russell couldn't stand the thing, and nobody would take it. So I decided the only thing left to do is put it out of its misery." Leslie followed her gaze to the statue of Pan in the fountain and snickered.

"If you had another mallet, I'd help," she remarked, and the girls both chortled before Maureen hefted the tool in both hands, went to the edge of the little fountain and took a mighty swing. The mallet connected with the statue's head in a very satisfying manner; Leslie leaped back, exploding with laughter, as the head blew apart with some force and cement chunks of all sizes showered into the fountain.

"This is for you, Russell," Maureen yelled merrily at the sky, heaving the mallet again and taking out nearly half the statue's upper torso. "Enjoy!" And as Leslie watched, rocking with mirth, she was sure that somewhere, on some plane, Russell St. Anthony was looking on and laughing with approval.


End file.
